"It is a rotten, abominable performance, clear through. We are wasting time."
Summoning a clerk, he told him:
"Get Captain Brett, the superintendent at Balboa, on the telephone. Tell him that I wish the biggest, fastest tug of the fleet, the Dauntless, if possible, to be coaled and ready for sea in two hours. Please ask him to call me up and report."
The colonel hesitated as if a question of authority perplexed him, but when the clerk returned he was ready with another command.
"I want to talk with Major Frazier of the marine battalion at Camp Elliot personally. Please connect his house with my desk."
Devlin nudged Alfaro. The face of the steam-shovel man lighted with the joy of battle. The colonel was a man with his two feet under him. They heard him say to the commander of the force of United States marines:
"It is an emergency detail, Major. I will forward the formal request and explanation to you in writing, but the documents can wait. An officer and a half company of men will be enough. Yes, equipped for active service. Thank you, very much. I will have a special train at your station in an hour from now, ready to take them to Balboa. It is a bit of sea duty. Your men will enjoy it."
Other orders issued rapidly from the colonel's desk. The Panama Railroad was notified to despatch a special train and give it a clear track through to the Pacific. The Department of Justice of the Canal Zone was requested to prepare the papers in due form for the arrest of General Quesada, and the seizure of his vessel. The splendidly organized system of administration moved as swiftly and smoothly in behalf of that humble, forlorn young wanderer, Walter Goodwin, as if he had been a person of the greatest consequence. As a final detail, the colonel made out passes permitting Devlin to go in the special train and on board of the government tug.
"You will want to see the fun, I suppose," said he, and his blue eyes twinkled again. "I should enjoy it myself."
"Indeed you would, sir," frankly replied Devlin.